I have Word open because I think I should write. I’ve begged off most of my commitments for the day, save one, but it’s not until 3:00 p.m. All I have to do then is pick up my daughter from school and drive her to work. I can handle that. I don’t need to shower for this command performance. I don’t even need to fix my hair. I can just throw on a pair of sweat pants and a sweat shirt and I’m good to go. I can leave the house via the garage so no one will see me.

So, for now I have no obligations. The house is empty. So I write. Or at least I try to write. I haven’t written in some time. It can be intimidating staring at the blank page wondering what to write about. Do I choose a topic? Or do I just write about my life? Who am I writing for? Now there’s the question. Who am I writing for?

In the beginning, I think I was mostly writing to provide information about bipolar disorder, and offer support for others suffering from this illness. But somewhere along the way I started feeling pressure to write. Pressure to provide valuable insight on a weekly basis. That lasted for about a year. It became challenging to unearth a new topic—something people would be interested in. I just couldn’t keep up that pace and still pump out solid content. So, instead, I noticed I began to write more personal blog posts.

I started to write about my life. My personal experiences. I didn’t hold back. It appears this was well-received. I appreciated all the positive feedback about my posts. I was encouraged. So now the format of my blog has somewhat changed but I hope that I still offer some insight into life with bipolar disorder. I hope my words can help others relate. And I hope to reduce the stigma surrounding mental illness.

All that being said, I hope to continue to write for another reason. When I finally sit down and take on that blank page, I’m always glad I did. I always feel good after I write. It’s very cathartic. It’s relaxing for me and provides an outlet where I can express what’s going on with me, or talk about something I’ve been thinking about or encountered. But writing is a discipline. And I don’t like being disciplined. At least not now. Hence the length of time between recent posts. But I have to admit that, for me, writing is therapeutic.

I’ve been in somewhat of a difficult place lately. I’ve been fighting depression. This is a particularly seasonal depression for me. Something that I’ve battled with for years. In an effort to be proactive, my psychiatrist prescribed light therapy and added a natural supplement with mood stabilizing effects to my medication regime. As well, he is now changing one anti-psychotic drug and introducing another—one that has more sleep and anxiety aid. That’s all well and good but it spells one thing—a medication change. That’s always a tough job.​When you’re depressed it’s so hard to do the very things that can help you. Like showering, getting dressed, leaving the house. I have days where that doesn’t happen. Today is almost one of those days. It’s trying to keep the balance between staying in and re-charging, and pushing myself to do things. I’ve been trying to combat my depression by keeping busy. I’m up at 8:00 a.m. to do my light therapy for half an hour. That leaves me with a lot of hours to fill in a day. I spend a lot of time chatting to people on my phone and of course can lose countless hours on social media. But, more importantly, I’m getting out of the house. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up, but for now I try to pass the hours with shopping, yoga, line dancing, visiting friends and spending time with my mom. All things good for my soul. Which brings me back to writing, it always comes back to writing—it’s good for my soul.